


Invitation

by Brenda



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: And Doesn't Care Who Knows It, Clark Is A Smitten Kitten, Facial Shaving, Hand Jobs, Kink Meme, M/M, POV Clark Kent, Post-Justice League (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14639097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: He raises the blade to Bruce's cheek, then pauses. Waits for Bruce's almost imperceptible nod before closing that final distance. Metal glides along vulnerable skin, and Clark watches, fascinated, as Bruce is revealed to him one careful inch at a time.





	Invitation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/gifts).



> Written for the [Clark shaving Bruce prompt](https://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=743891#cmt743891) in the DCEU kink meme.

Clark doesn't need to sleep, but he's learned the art of meditation over the years, quietly lying in bed and letting his thoughts drift like dandelion weeds across a meadow. It helps center him on nights when he needs to focus on a problem, or a story in his day job. Or when he just needs a break from the pleas of a world that can loom too large for even his shoulders to bear. 

He gets all the restoration he needs from the sun, but he also likes dozing after sex, allowing both his body and mind to lie in that lethargic, liminal space he and his partner have created. It's easy to attune his own heartbeat to another's, to match their breaths with his own, to absorb his partner's body heat and sweat under his own skin like a sunlamp. He's always been tactile, openly physical with his affections, fascinated by the contrast of beautifully frail human bodies against his own impervious one. In the differences between how they smell and taste, so unique and different, all of them magnificent in a way that defies description.

But no single human body has ever fascinated Clark the way Bruce Wayne's has. Every inch of Bruce has been relentlessly forged into the perfect weapon – the purest of silk molded over an exquisitely balanced blade – every muscle honed into frankly preposterous dimensions, every sinew and tendon sculpted into a living work of art. Bruce possesses the build of a linebacker combined with the quiet surety a ninja would envy, and the sheer dichotomy between the hulking size of him and the liquid grace with which he moves never ceases to fill Clark with wonder. 

But Bruce’s body, even as magnicifent as it is, with as much pleasure as Clark gets from touching and tasting it, is still no match for his mind. That lightning-fast brain calculating odds and strategies in the pause between breaths, able to read body language and intent better than any lie detector ever invented. Bruce may be human, but he's made himself into something better, something _more_. 

Clark thinks he could live another millennia and never meet anyone with Bruce's drive and determination and brilliance. Would never find a body that fits to Clark's own so well, or a mind that challenges his own so perfectly. He's traveled the stars, and has never once found another heartbeat he could pick out across continents, the metronome steadiness he'd know in a crowd. 

The sun is just cresting over the horizon, lazy tendrils of light sneaking in through the sheer ivory curtains, when Clark comes back to gradual awareness. He knows, before he even opens his eyes, that Bruce's side of the bed is empty. Unlike Clark, Bruce needs all the rest he can get; _unlike_ Clark, Bruce rarely gives himself the luxury of turning off that big, beautiful brain of his for more than a couple of hours at a time. Clark's gotten used to waking up alone more often than not, to cool sheets and Bruce's subtle, earthy scent clinging to his pillow, the only hint he'd ever made it to bed at all. 

He hears the shower in the bathroom turn on, and flings back the sheet, rising from the bed to face the windows. Tilts his face up to the sunlight, soaking in the dawn rays like sustenance, and feels the energy humming through him, lighting him up from within. He stretches his senses along with his body, listening for any sign of anyone needing imminent aid, but there's nothing first responders can't handle. 

Good. He's got plans this morning that don't involve leaving Bruce's tastefully opulent bedroom suite.

He turns and heads towards the bathroom, pushing the door open on silent hinges. Steam billows out, so thick Clark can taste it on his tongue, the heavy heat draping across his nude body like a cloak. The hairs on his chest and arms mat instantly; Clark has no idea how Bruce can breathe in this soup, let alone move. But the opaque glass of the shower door reveals Bruce in flashes – a glimpse of a hip, a tease of an arm, a shock of jet-black hair. Clark knows he could step into the shower and be welcome – the fact that Bruce is showering here instead of the Cave is invitation enough – but he stays where he is, toes curling on damp tiles, arms loose at his sides, and waits.

The water shuts off and the shower door opens, more steam spilling forth in heavy white clouds, and Bruce emerges from its depths like an Olympian rising from sea. Impressively wide shoulders taper to an equally impressive waist, and the sharp cut of his hips, framing, in Clark's not so humble opinion, the world's prettiest cock. Bruce's skin is glowing pink from the heat, droplets of water trickling over a thick-set chest that would rival a champion bodybuilder's, rivulets racing along sculpted abs and oak-strong thighs. His hair is plastered to his head, his jaw granite, and those all-knowing, piercing blue eyes are shadowed by the fan of his lashes. Every inch of him the pinnacle of human achievement, human willpower. If he's shocked to see Clark waiting for him, it doesn't show on his face. Instead, his lips tilt up slightly as he grabs a towel and slings it low around his hips, not bothering to dry off first.

Another invitation, this one Clark gladly takes.

He shadows Bruce to the sink, meeting that heavy-lidded gaze in the mirror, steps in close enough to feel the heat of Bruce's skin, to trace every molecule of water rolling down that proud spine with his eyes. He flicks his tongue out to wet parched lips, yearning to slake his thirst, but doesn't cross the invisible boundary between them. Bruce has given him permission to look, but not yet to touch.

Bruce's lips curve up again, pleased, and he opens the medicine cabinet, sets down a straight razor, strop, shaving brush, and soap, in a military neat line across the counter. When he speaks, his voice is a low, gravelly rasp.

"Got a board meeting at nine," he says, the reflection of his gaze never leaving Clark's. "Lucius would probably appreciate it if I cleaned up for it."

Personally, Clark likes Bruce with a little scruff. He likes the scrape and burn of it along his skin, that extra layer of roughness when they kiss. But he just nods, as if giving the matter some thought. 

"Probably," he replies, and picks up the shaving soap, lifting an eyebrow in silent question. Bruce just half-turns towards him, which is answer enough.

Permission to touch finally granted.

The foam is tacky, glides thick across Bruce's cheeks and jaw. The pads of Clark's fingertips catch along spiky bristles, and Bruce hmms at the contact, tilts his face obligingly so Clark can get at his throat. He rinses and dries his hands, then fills the sink with hot water. He picks up the razor, running it over the strop a few times before he's satisfied. The blade gleams in the warm glow of the overhead lights; Clark can see his distorted reflection in the silver when he glances down.

He raises the blade to Bruce's cheek, then pauses. Waits for Bruce's almost imperceptible nod before closing that final distance. Metal glides along vulnerable skin, and Clark watches, fascinated, as Bruce is revealed to him one careful inch at a time.

The only sounds are their mingled breathes, both nice and even, and the drag of the razor along hair and skin. Under it, Clark can hear the constant cadence of Bruce's heart, the blood rushing along arteries and veins, a beautiful symphony for his ears alone. Bruce only moves when Clark tilts his head, otherwise he's statue-still, the heat of him the only indication that he's not made of marble. 

His eyes stay on Clark's, ever watchful, ever inscrutable. Clark may be granted more access than most into Bruce's inner sanctum, but not even he's arrogant enough to think he's come close to skimming below the surface of the deep wells Bruce keeps locked away. But there's a trust here, one far more intimate than sex or even when they're on the field of battle together. It's one thing for both of them to tacitly know that Clark could end Bruce's life with one punch, no matter how well Bruce armors himself. It's another thing entirely for Bruce to willingly place a weapon in Clark's reach and offer himself, a thin layer of pale skin and Clark's steady hand the only things between him and a swift death.

Clark glides the razor along the arrogant line of Bruce's jaw, to the slight indent of his chin. Then he slides his free hand in Bruce's hair, fingers tangling in wet strands, as he nudges Bruce's head back, baring the long, delicate line of his throat. Bruce's heart doesn't skip a beat, but his breath catches ever-so-slightly, a susurration of sound so minute a human would never have heard it.

To Clark, it's as loud as a shout.

He can smell Bruce's arousal, the pheromones thick in the air, and his own blood surges in response. The urge to lean in and capture Bruce's lips with his own is tempting, but he's been given a task, and Bruce isn't the type to recompense a job left unfinished, no matter how attractive the alternative. But Clark does tighten his grip in Bruce's hair, nails digging into his scalp. The pressure is _just_ on this side of painful, riding the edge of what he knows Bruce can take. He's rewarded with another hitch of breath, and smiles, slow and lazy, letting Bruce glimpse the implacable power of Kal-El constantly lurking under Clark Kent's gentle touch.

"Stay still," he admonishes, even though Bruce hasn't so much as twitched, and brings the razor to the curve of Bruce's adam's apple. Bruce's eyes seem to flutter shut of their own volition, and he exhales between barely-parted lips, the tension in his shoulders almost visibly melting. Clark shifts, his thigh brushing Bruce's erection, hidden behind the towel. His own cock is just as hard, clamoring for attention, but Clark pays it little mind. He dips the blade in the now cloudy water, brings it back to Bruce's throat, the gentle scraping of metal on skin echoing dully off the tile walls.

He doesn't loosen his hold until he's completely finished, until Bruce's face is bare and smooth. Bruce blinks his eyes back open, his gaze heavy now, the look reminiscent of the one he gets after an athletic round of sex. It's Clark's turn for his breath to catch, for his own heart to stutter under his ribcage. He recovers by snagging the bottle of shaving oil, pouring a generous amount on his hands, and takes his time gliding them along newly silken skin. 

Bruce leans into the contact, chasing Clark's touch – the motion reminds Clark of a cat seeking attention, and the comparison is an apt one. Bruce is prickly and independent and prone to biting the hand that feeds him more often than not, but Clark's never met anyone who cares so deeply or who's so loyal to those closest to him. That Clark can count himself among those cherished few is a gift of the highest magnitude, one he'll never take for granted, no matter what the future has in store for either of them.

Once he's satisfied that Bruce's face has been properly cared for, swiping his thumb across the dent in Bruce's chin as if to imprint himself there, he lowers his hands to Bruce's waist. The towel falls between their feet as Clark closes his fist around Bruce's cock, slippery fingers tightening over a generous girth. Bruce makes a guttural noise, this one audible, then pulls Clark close, blunt-tipped nails still managing to dig deep into his hips. They lock gazes as Clark takes them both in hand, moving a shade too rough and too fast, but Bruce just lets out another wordless gasp, and pushes into the friction.

Bruce only closes his eyes when he comes, head tilting back as he jerks helplessly in Clark's grip, white ropes of come spattering across Clark's hand and stomach. Clark follows a minute later, painting Bruce's groin and hips with his own come, and the heavy scent of sex overwhelms Clark's senses, sending him into a shuddering second orgasm, this one just as potent as the first.

He's still shaking, tiny aftershocks rippling through his body, when warm, full lips touch his. He moans into the kiss, breathes Bruce in as they both come down, slow now, gentle in a way they almost never are outside these sheltering walls.

It's another few minutes before Bruce lifts his head. His lips are reddened, smooth cheeks flush, those midnight-blue eyes soft around the edges. He smiles, a sardonic twist of lips, and casts a glance down at the come drying on his stomach and Clark's. 

"I suppose I should shower again," he says, almost as if he's speaking to himself.

"A good idea," Clark agrees, with his own small smile.

Bruce hums under his breath. "But then I'd be late," he muses.

Clark nods. "But then you'd be late."

Bruce glances up at him then, his smirk now wide and full, and the sight of it jolts Clark right back into full arousal. "Well, the nice thing about owning the company is they'll wait for me," he says, and drags Clark to him, slanting their mouths together hot and slick, finally giving free rein to the passion flaring between them.

They stumble back towards the shower, hands clutching on skin, harsh groans filling the air, but their hearts still beat together in perfect time.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Boop](https://boopifer.tumblr.com) for the beta, and to [Susie](https://susiecarter.tumblr.com) for being the best cheerleader ever. 
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](https://brendaonao3.tumblr.com)! <3


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